What it takes to say ‘I am here’

Ireally could not believe she said yes. But there I was, pulling into the driveway of Danyelle Sargent Musselman’s house. Her husband, the coach, appeared on the other side of the glass door, shirtless just after a swim, and was too polite to proceed wherever he was going as he dried himself with a towel.

He opened the door and greeted me. Danyelle instantly appeared and saved him by saying, “I told you you needed a shirt,” which made us all laugh.

She turned to me and said, “Gwen Faulkenberry? This is my husband Eric.”

Eric, who I’d call His Royal Highness, the King of the Hoops, shook my hand and said nice to meet you before ducking out.

I don’t know that I have ever seen a more naturally beautiful human than Danyelle. And I say “naturally” because she wore her hair in a messy bun pulled back from a flawless face untouched by makeup. If she wasn’t so sweet I’d be obliged to dislike her for how good she looked in leggings, a sweatshirt, and socks. I bet she just finished doing cardio or yoga or running a marathon or something. Without breaking a sweat.

She led me up the stairs to a movie room where two fuzzy little dogs joined us. I gave them proper homage by sitting on the floor to pet and play. The brown one chewed my sleeve while the white one licked my face. Their names were hilariously Dunkin and Swish. By the time Danyelle shooed them out we were pretty much best friends.

Because I believe in full disclosure, I just admitted to Danyelle right off that I had no idea what I was doing. Then I proceeded to demonstrate by calling technical support, otherwise known as my son’s girlfriend Brooklin,

because I could not get the stupid podcast recording situation going even though I practiced it for hours beforehand. Danyelle didn’t let on that I was an idiot or anything. She just waited patiently and answered texts on her phone.

While I fumbled around with the equipment, I explained that podcasting wasn’t my usual medium, as if she couldn’t tell. I am a writer for a reason, and that is because the only technology required is a pen and paper, though I am also fairly advanced in typing on a keypad and moving words around on a screen in Microsoft Word or Google Docs. Not to brag.

When I got it all working, I sat adjacent to her on a barstool. “I want to forget about this stuff now,” I told her, circling my pointer finger to encompass the computer, wires, and giant microphone fresh out of the box that would remind you of a vintage Elvis Shure 55. “Let’s just have a conversation as if it wasn’t being recorded for a podcast.” Danyelle good-naturedly agreed.

I’m not going to tell you about the podcast. You can listen to that masterpiece on Arkansas Strong soon, and I hope you will. But what I am here to write about—to shout from the mountaintops—is the sheer genius and power of a person who is brave enough to step forward in this crazy world and say, I am here. Make of it what you will.

Nancy Jeffery, the writer and former religion editor of this paper, recently told me there was nothing better than that. She wrote after reading one of my columns, saying she was proud of me for putting myself out there. It meant a lot to me. I appreciated her seeing and knowing on some level the terror I feel when I write. The nakedness. The lurking fear that what I’m saying is stupid, or terrible, or boring; I’ll be misunderstood, or exposed as a bad writer, or otherwise judged.

Another friend jokingly called this column my diary and said he’s jealous no one wants to publish his. But the truth is he would never want that. Most people wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. And this is not my diary. But it is the only way I know how to write this column. It’s the only way I know how to be.

But I cannot pretend the cost of being myself is very high. When I ran for office I was dragged through the mud, and it was a bummer, but in the scheme of things it wasn’t too big of a deal. It didn’t last long. I never felt I was in danger. My family and real friends supported me, and still love me even though I lost.

It’s the same with this column except better because nothing is in person unless I want it to be. I get a little hate mail, precious little so far, but even that is fairly easy to filter. And I always have the option to ignore it.

So for me to step forward and say I am here, make of it what you will, is relatively easy. I am a white, straight, cis-gendered woman with a master’s degree. I am able-bodied. Middle-class. I have a freakishly awesome family I can depend on. I am a teacher. Up until recently I was a Southern Baptist Sunday School teacher and church pianist. I don’t mean to degrade who I am or downplay what I do. God knows I work hard and try my best to do my part. But the truth is it is not an especially brave or radical act to be me.

That is not true of Danyelle Musselman. In fact, it was her brave radical act of existing as a Black woman married to a white man that first caught my attention. Pictures of her mixed family cheering on the Hogs, being happy, having fun that drew me to follow her on Twitter.

It was there I found her defense of her husband with a promise to block anyone who criticized him or the Hogs. Her philanthropic work for cancer patients, the homeless in northwest Arkansas; her advocacy for vaccines to protect others from covid, her courage before the Fayetteville school board.

Her choices to put family first. Her many career and personal accomplishments. Her obvious delight in being a mother. So many riches flow from her willingness to step forward and say I am here. Make of it what you will. It’s stating the obvious to say that any conclusion other than how awesome Danyelle is and how lucky we are to have her family here is idiocy.

I long for a world that is big enough, kind enough, and wise enough that no courage is required to step forward and say I am here. I want Arkansas to be a place where the expectation, the assumption, is that we are all invited to step forward. To come to the table. To be here and be our authentic selves with the assurance that what will be made of it is respect, acceptance, and joy.

This is us, and this is America, at our very best.